


Name

by Papillonn



Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Anal Sex, F/M, Hostage Situations, Rape, Rape/Non-con Elements, Vaginal Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-07
Updated: 2014-09-07
Packaged: 2018-02-16 10:36:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2266539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Papillonn/pseuds/Papillonn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He can't remember your name...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Name

Your name.

He can’t remember your fucking name.

It doesn’t stop him, though.

He hisses softly as he continues to pound his cock inside of your slippery cunt. You're mewling into the mattress, clawing at the fabric of his sheets as you feels every rigid veins stroke you over and over.

“Fuck me,” you cry, throwing your head back as he rides you. His cock slips out, all of the lubricant and friction too much. He grunts in frustration before cupping himself, with a few strokes, and then filling you once more. Your wet heat feels divine. His hands find a place to rest on your fleshy hip, grabbing so brutally that you cries out in pain. He’s oblivious, though, because you feels so good. He needs to keep fucking you.

“Whore,” he moans, drawing a hand up and bringing it down with a resounding _SLAP_ against your fleshy bottom. You arch, and jump a few centimeters up, but stay impaled on his cock. He drives in harder, turned on by the scene as his eyes drift low and find where his cock is snuggly packed inside of your cunt, glistening with your arousal and bits of his precum. He’s fascinated by the way he slides in and out and you continues to feel tight.

“Yes! I am a whore,”

“You want my cock?”

“Yes!” you scream.

He slams into you so hard that his pelvic bone aches from the pressure. He’s deep. He’s hitting your cervix and your cries begin to become pleas as you become uncomfortable. He can’t stop though.

He can’t remember your fucking name.

“Please!” you beg, lifting your head from where he has you pinned, fucking you brutally from behind. He has his eyes shut, though. He won’t look at you. He tries to pull away, and is successful. His cock pops out of you and he growls. His fingers tighten around you so hard that you give a scream of pain.

“You’re hurting me!”

He snatches by you hair and pulls tightly, gripping his cock in his free hand.

“You want it up your ass,” he states, “I’m going to give it to you up your ass,”

You had whispered that to him at the bar, when he was behind you, murmuring naughty things in your ear, sending jolts of electricity down your spine. Now you feel anything but excitement. You feel terror. Blue eyes flash to your brown eyes, and a menacing smile erupts over his face. He’s so hard right now that you know he will scar you if he tries to enter anus.

Lewdly, he spits into his hand, and coats his cock, mingling the saliva with your juices. You try to fight him, but you are paralyzed in fear right now. You can’t move, and you don’t think you can breathe, either.

He enters you. Your body feels as if it is being split in half. You burn so badly that you imagine you might pass out right there. His guttural cry of pleasure is deafening. He spreads your ass apart so that he can watch what is before him. He begins to fuck you with fervor, abandoning the slow pace that he had adopted in order to watch the show. He’s losing himself fast. He calls you his whore.

Your eyes drip with tears, blaming yourself for ever being so brazen and approaching him. There was something about him that told you he was dangerous. You begin to howl in pain as he cups your breasts, heavy in his hands, and twists painfully, kneading and using them as leverage while he fucks your ass.

“FUCK!”

His roar resounds through the room, bouncing off the walls and echoing in your ears. He spills inside of you, and you feel his semen leak down the back of your thighs. He’s hunched over you, breathing loudly, panting as he tries to steady himself.

He collapses beside you, pulling out in the process. More sticky fluid rushes down your leg and you whimper. He groans something and tugs you into an embrace, nuzzling into your neck.

“That was great,” he whispers, “thank you.”

He doesn’t loosen his grip on you, and you lay there paralyzed, listening to his breathing as he sleeps. You are too scared to move this soon. His grip is still too heavy. You imagine that soon it will loosen as he slips into a deeper sleep.

After what seems like eternity, you finally manage to pry yourself from his grip without a peep or any indication that he is aware of your movement. You scramble frantically, trying to locate your clothing and your purse. There are strewn across his bedroom floor. You slip your dress on, forfeiting your underclothing, the sense of urgency so raw that nothing else matters. You need to leave.

You blindly walk down the stairs, tears blooming in your eyes again as you struggle with your shoes. This is your fault. All your fault. Stumbling through the dark, your legs feel like jelly. You’ve reached the door when a firm voice, directly in back of you asks,

“Where do you think you’re going?”

“… _please_ ,” you whimper, “I won’t say anything—just let me go!”

You dare lift your eyes towards his. His face is dark, and his smile is deep.

“I don’t think so, little one. Come… let’s go back to bed.”

You don’t resist.

You want to plead with him further, but you don’t.

You can’t.

You can’t remember his name.


End file.
